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Poem	I'd walk her home after work buying roses and talking of Bechsteins. She was full of soul. Her small room was gorged with heat and there were no windows. She'd take off everything but her pants and take the pins from her hair throwing them on the floor with a great noise. Like Crete. We wouldn't make love. She'd get on the bed with those nipples and we'd lie sweating and talking of my best friend. They were in love. When I got quiet she'd put on usually Debussy and leaning down to the small ribs bite me. Hard.
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